


can i hold you

by Prehensilizing



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 16:30:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prehensilizing/pseuds/Prehensilizing
Summary: But the point was, Stanley never saw it until the bank.And Ford saw, and Stan saw that Ford saw, and neither could breathe or move for a long time. That was the thing about having a twin – maybe you didn’t relate to most people, but god damn it, you could relate to one person.





	can i hold you

 

* * *

 

            The first time Stanley saw it was at the bank.

            It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, not long after the twins had left for California. Stanford Pines stood on the other side of the plexiglass barrier, checkbook clutched tightly in hand. The teller seemed very far away, not quite a real person. Her voice was metallic.

            “Sir?” she asked, again. “Sir, are you all right?”

            “Er, yes. I’m fine,” Ford heard himself mumble on autopilot. “If you’ll just...  excuse me...”

            He stood, passing the robotic tellers and the thick plastic windows. Outside. He had to get outside. The heels of his boots clacked on marble, far too loud in his own ears. His hands closed hard on the metal bar, and he breathed in the fresh sun gratefully. A cool forest breeze danced over his face. He gulped in another breath.

            “Sixer,” a familiar voice grumbled beside him.

            He didn’t answer right away. His fingernails bit into his palms.

            “Ford,” the voice tried again.

            “I’m fine,” Ford answered mechanically.

            “You sure?”

            “Yes,” Ford said, and meant it. His breaths were coming easier. It was just him and his brother, out there on the quiet street. He could do this. Stanley watched him for a few moments, unimpressed.

            “You never thanked me for paying off your dumb mortgage, you know.”

            Ford laughed weakly.

When he squeezed Stanley’s hand, his brother squeezed back.

            That wasn’t the first time, of course.

            The first time was in the shower on his first night out of the portal, under the jet of hot water in the first-floor bathroom of the Mystery Shack, and the way Ford’s shoulders slumped forward when he had to get out after only four minutes because it was just too much. The water was so warm he almost couldn’t feel the tears on his own face.

            And the second time – the second time was upon trying to book tickets to New Jersey to see dad’s old place, and discovering Stan had earned him a spot on the no-fly list. It wasn’t _his_ name, he told himself. Not really. Only – of course it was his name. There it was, staring back at him from the computer screen, and he could barely breathe. Stanford Pines.

            Computers had been a jolt, too. Cell phones, Bluetooth. None of it was even a remote possibility when he had disappeared through the portal. Now they were commonplace household items, ones he had to observe thoroughly before he could trust. If people could hold supercomputers in the palm of their hands, he reasoned, the government would certainly be spying on them. Of course, that didn’t abate the question of who the current government actually _was_. He didn’t know, and didn’t care. He wasn’t crazy.

            But the point was, Stanley never saw it until the bank.

And Ford saw, and Stan saw that Ford saw, and neither could breathe or move for a long time. That was the thing about having a twin – maybe you didn’t relate to most people, but god damn it, you could relate to _one_ person. Stan could _always_ tell what Ford was thinking at a glance. Stan shifted his weight onto one leg, the seam of his suit bunching up onto one shoulder.

            “You, uh, get these often?” he asked, attempting conversational and falling short of the mark.

            “What are ‘these’?” Ford asked, making air quotes with his free hand. He didn’t let go of Stan’s fingers. Their grip was warm.

            “Panic attack.”

            Ford winced. His brother sure didn’t mince words.

            “Stanley, I am _not_ having a-“

            “Panic attack,” Stan finished again, unimpressed. A half-formed thought, some joke about finishing each other’s sentences, raced through Ford’s mind. A troubled smile touched his lips and he shook his head.

            “I don’t panic.”

            “Not in stressful situations, you don’t.”

            “Precisely. I’m glad you noticed-“

            “We’re at the bank.”

             Ford faltered. His free hand hung in the air, caught on the tail end of his unfinished statement. His extra finger stuck out in the sun. Had it always stuck out so far? Ford sniffed and shoved the offending hand into his pocket.

            “Exactly,” he finished weakly. “A normal, everyday _non-_ stressful outing.”

            “Which is why it’s so friggin’ weird you’re having a panic attack,” Stanley finished, not one to miss the last word, especially to his brother. His chest puffed out, just a little. “Just tell me what’s _wrong,_ Sixer.”

            “I... can’t...” Ford shook his head. His breath came in shallow puffs.

            “Stanford,” Stan murmured, voice softer. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

            Stan threaded his fingers through Ford’s. Ford’s gloves were thin, and he could feel each tiny movement through the smooth fabric. He remembered something he’d heard once about fingers. Fingers were the consistency of carrots, and if you bit down hard enough you’d snap right through at the knuckle. Stan’s fingers weren’t like that. They were warm, and solid. He gulped in another breath.

            “Is there anything I can... for crissake Ford, can I _hold_ you?” Stan’s voice had changed, Ford noticed. More gentle. That tone would haunt Ford for the rest of his life, and he knew it. He fought through another breath. He was distantly aware of their surroundings, of being in a public place, and yet on another much deeper level, he found that he couldn’t stop this gut reaction. He wanted Stan’s comfort. Needed it. He nodded.  

            Stan’s arms were around him then, even warmer and more solid than his fingers. Ford, who hadn’t even realized he had been crying, let out a low, keening sob. Stan held him, unashamed in the warm autumn air, out in the open for everyone to see. He cared so much, Ford thought. How could anyone possibly care so much?

            “She’s the first person you’ve talked to since the portal, isn’t she? That teller.” Stan asked quietly. “Besides me?”

            Ford nodded pathetically. At least the sun was out, he noticed. It could have been raining. But if it was raining, at least he was wearing his coat and boots. He always wore his boots. Ford was the sort of gallows humor guy who’d kick his shoes off when he died, because everyone told him he’d die with his boots on. He _always_ wore his boots, even when it was hot out. He laughed at this absurd revelation, at his mind looping and looping, and felt Stan’s worry. His brother tensed.

            “Fordsy,” Stan muttered. “Hey now.”

            “Sorry, I-I-I just-“

            “Shh.”

             It was quiet out, Ford thought. That was nice. Gravity Falls forest. Gravity Falls birds. Gravity Falls trees, sun, sky. His mind churned and boiled like the Colorado River, around and around, hitting every rock on the way down. Minutiae became apparent. Even the most mundane objects around him held too much vivid color, too much detail. The world was too bright.

            “Stanley,” Ford choked.

             “I’m here.”

            “Stanley,” he whimpered again. His fingers caught in the fabric of Stan’s rumpled suit.

            “Yep.”

            He didn’t deserve Stan. Not an ounce.

            He hated that touches had to end, and that moments couldn’t go on forever. He prepared himself, waiting for Stan to loosen his grip, for him to back up and let go. Surely his brother hated him by now, if he didn’t hate him already. How weak he was. How pathetic. Any second now.

            But Stan didn’t let go. Ford sobbed and sobbed into his brother’s collarbone.

            “Please don’t leave,” he whimpered, acutely aware of how uncomfortable he was making the situation.

            “Never,” Stan promised. Ford risked a look up. When he met his brother’s eyes, they were glistening with tears. Was Stan crying?

            “Lee,” Ford choked.

            “I didn’t know it was this bad,” Stan said, tightening his hold. “I’m so sorry, Ford. I’m sorry you had to go so long without human contact in that stupid portal.”

             Oh, Stanley.

            “It’s okay,” Ford whispered. He coughed, and straightened up, removing his glasses and wiping the tears from his hot cheeks. The bank personnel were watching them through the windows. The teller had a phone in her hand. Shit. Stan covered his face with one hand.

            “You know I hate it when you cry,” he said with a sniff, seemingly oblivious to the autumn world around them.

            “Stanley,” Ford breathed, squaring his shoulders. “It’s n-not your fault.”

            “Let’s get outta here,” Stan suggested.

            “Did you l-l-leave the paperwork w-with her?”

            “Yeah. C’mon.”

            They made it as far as the car. The rusted license plate proclaiming it the ‘STNLYMBL’ glinted in the sun. The red convertible was old, and the seat extended across the car with no barrier between driver and passenger. Cigarette butts lined the ashtray beneath the ancient metal steering wheel. Ford shook his head.

            “I can’t believe you got away with driving this junkheap all these years,” Ford remarked, clearing his tight throat. He was starting to sound more like himself.

            “Hey! She can hear you,” Stan said, patting the dash fondly. He made no move to start the engine.

            “I mean the license plate. How did you get away with calling yourself Stanford while driving the ‘Stanleymobile?’”

            “With panache. And style.” Stan half-smiled. “No one questioned it.”

            “At least you dress the part.” Ford sniffed, chuckling wistfully. “No one wears a suit like that unless they’re selling a mattress or driving this car. It’s very... you.”

            Stan shrugged halfheartedly, both hands on the wheel, though the car remained in park.

            “Hey,” Ford said. He placed a careful hand on his brother’s forearm. “I’m okay.”

            “Y’know...” Stan hesitated. “I saw you. The other day, getting out of the shower. You didn’t think anyone was around, and you came into the hallway with your towel on. And I... saw you.” Stan’s voice was quiet and dark. “All your scars.”

            “Oh,” Ford breathed.

            “And I’m sorry,” Stan whimpered, voice breaking. “I’m... r-real sorry, Ford.”

            “Stanley,” Ford sighed. “Are _you_ okay?”

            “No!” Stan punched the wheel. The sudden blare of the horn interrupted the otherworldly silence of Gravity Falls. They glanced worriedly at the bank, but nobody came out. “No, I’m...”

            Ford wordlessly scooted across the conjoined seat. He gathered his brother into his arms. Still shaky from his own panic attack, he pressed their bodies together at every possible point, providing as much support as he could. Stan’s bulk pressed into his ribcage.

            “It’s my fault.” Stan’s breath was hot, his words muffled in the newly damp fabric at Ford’s shoulder. “I m-made you feel like this. Sixer,” he gasped. “Sixer, I’m sorry.”

            “Oh, Stanley,” Ford breathed.

            “Ngh... I _wasted_ your life. You’re so smart. You coulda... woulda won a Nobel prize or... or somethin’. But instead you got this-“

            Ford felt searing cold fingers at his waist. Stan’s index finger trailed up his side, pulling the hem of his sweater up a few inches to expose the gnarled, grisly scars underneath. Involuntarily, he caught himself pulling the fabric back down.

            “Stan!”

            “I just don’t want ya to feel like you need to _hide_ from me.” Stan’s childhood native New Jersey twang slipped back in at the cracks. Ford heard it clearly, and it broke his heart. He gripped his brother’s wrist tight.

            “Lee... it’s not your fault.”

            “But it is. Don’t you see?”

            Ford sighed. “I might have thought so, years ago. But look at you, Stanley. You reconstructed the portal with _one_ of my notebooks, let alone three. That’s... brilliant. That’s more than even I was able to do. You’re a genius. And a hero.”

            The words were simple, very short and to the point. From anyone other than Ford, they might have sounded curt. Sarcastic, even. Or worse – like he was humoring him. But this was Ford, and coming from Ford, it was the most honest statement in the world. Stanley heaved a sob of gratitude, sensing the sincerity in his brothers’ praise.

            “Ford,” he sniffed, clearing his throat without moving.

            “Yeah.” Ford rested his chin on the top of Stan’s head.

            “Heh... awkward sibling hug?”

            Ford exhaled, blowing a few strands of Stan’s hair to the side.

            “Pat, pat,” he acknowledged in a whisper, pulling his brother tight.

            The sun was beginning to set, just beyond the blocky bank building. Gravity Falls was as quiet and peaceful as ever. Stan’s weight was reassuring at his side. Just maybe, Ford reflected, appreciating his twin’s warmth against his body as he waited for Stan to be ready to drive again – maybe things could be okay.

 


End file.
